


Mise en automne

by ginnyred



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Autumn, Fluff, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Suspension Of Disbelief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27894193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyred/pseuds/ginnyred
Summary: In which autumn sucks, but maybe it doesn't.
Relationships: Niccolò Fares/Martino Rametta
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	Mise en automne

His friend Eva is very into the whole autumn deal: the fiery colours of fallen leaves, crunchy under your boots; the first colds; warm blankets and cozy jumpers; fairy lights and lazy afternoons spent sipping hot chocolate your boyfriend made especially for you.

... if you have one, that is.

As with most things in life, Marti has a much more down-to-earth approach to it. To him autumn means, above all else, that the weather is going to be shit. And he doesn't have much use for cozy blankets and hot chocolate on his way to uni, does he? Because yes, autumn also means his last year at uni has officially begun: it's been four weeks, and Marti is already drowning in notes and textbooks. Not to mention the professors already dropping the T-word.

And as for boyfriends, well... nevermind.

So excuse _him_ if he doesn't jump out of his skin as he gets out of the underground station and it's fucking raining again. For the third time this week. And he still has to catch the bus home.

He rummages in his backpack, only half-covered under the awning of a nearby café, and manages to grab hold of his umbrella, buried under his uni stuff.

It's old, and it makes a weird squeaking sound as Marti pushes it open, but it does its job at least. Marti sighs and starts walking briskly towards the bus stop, his blue umbrella surprisingly bright against the dull, gray November sky.

Or, at least, the umbrella _would_ do its job if it were raining sensibly, but of course it's too windy for that. Instead, it's raining sideways and Marti's jeans are soaked to his fucking knees.

As he reaches the half-broken bench at the bus stop (the roof long gone as usual, no bus in sight) he feels a lot like kicking it, but he reins the feeling in. Just leans tiredly against the side of it (his jeans are ruined anyway) and checks the time on his phone:

16:57

Fourteen minutes to wait, if the bus is on time. Which is unlikely, because it's a known fact bus drivers can't drive in the rain – or pretend they can't to mess with poor wet commuters, one of the two.

There are not many people around: just the occasional car or tram passing him by, someone looking for shelter in a bar at the opposite side of the road, an old lady with a poodle hurrying back home after the worst-timed dog walk of the century. It's slowly getting darker too, the lamplights switching on abrupty, throwing the whole street into a strange, hazy half-light.

Out of nowhere, Marti finds himself wondering what's for dinner (it's early, yes, but he ate half a focaccia today, so he feels he's justified). It takes a second for him to remember dinner won't happen unless he makes it. Because yes, Wednesday is Gio's turn technically but he'll be at Eva's until late, he said at brekfast, so, if Marti wants to eat, he'd better come up with something.

Maybe he could just order out? (Marti doesn't picture his wallet crying out in protest at the suggestion). Is seven o'clock too early for Japanese?

Weird, how that's the last thing he remembers thinking.

Okay, that's a bit dramatic: weird, how that's the last thing he remembers thinking _before the accident_.

He doesn't see the car arrive, obviously: he's wrestling with the wind to keep the umbrella upright and the touchscreen on his smartphone refuses to cooperate making his search for "local japanese restaurants" end up looking a lot like experimental poetry.

The car doesn't slow down, it doesn't stop. Drives right through the giant puddle at the side of the road, not even a metre from the bus stop, where Marti is leaning against the bench. When Marti hears the engine whirring it's too late and even as he looks up he realises that's probably not the best idea.

_Splash._

A slap of cold water to his face. Water dripping down his neck, under his jacket, drenching his shirt, his chest, his everything. Gobsmacked, Marti lets go of the umbrella, barely registering it flying away, carried by the wind. He lets go of his phone too, and it falls onto the concrete with a worrying crack.

For a moment, he feels nothing. Then he sees the car slow to a stop a few metres ahead – a nice, yet somewhat battered, red Mini. Marti can't see the driver very well from here, in the half-light and under the pouring rain, but, for a start, they're not soaking wet right now. Which is fucking enough to get Marti fuming.

The moment the car door opens, Marti forgets this is a potentially dangerous situation. And starts shouting.

"What the fuck?" Marti gestures angrily to the guy (it's a guy, that much is clear) as he gets out of the car, no umbrella in sight, and starts mumbling something in his direction – something Marti has no intention of listening to.

He storms closer in anger, screaming half to drown out the rain, half because it makes him feel marginally better. "Do I look like a streetlamp to you? A fucking tree?!"

The guy stops walking towards Marti, wary in the face of Marti's advance, but he doesn't back down. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I did see you, I did, I-"

"Why didn't you slow down then?!"

"The brakes are shitty when it rains!"

"Get them fixed then!"

"I wanted to!" The guy pushes his wet hair back, but they fall right back into his face. Marti is too angry to notice the stark contrast between his pale skin and the black hair, the way it makes his cheekbones stand out, marble-like... or so he tells himself. "Then it started raining again and I thought 'better not drive anymore today'!"

Marti stops advancing, hands on his hips. "Except you _were_ driving!"

"To go home!" The guy looks almost desperate now, which is ridiculous, because Marti is the one who's drenched to the bone. _Well..._ Marti takes in the way the guy's jean jacket is dripping at the hem. _Maybe both of them now._

"Still! You should have- You could have-" Marti doesn't know where he's going with this anymore. He's too tired. " _Fuck._ "

"I know! I know! Listen..." The guy grabs Marti's arm, almost pleading. "Let me give you a lift home? To say sorry."

"You just said the brakes don't work..." Marti reminds him slowly, trying not to think of how warm and nice the inside of the Mini probably is right now. "I'd rather not die today. On top of everything else."

"I'll go slow! The brakes are fine when the speed is low enough."

"So what you're saying is you _could_ have prevented this." Marti pulls on his soaked jacket as if to demostrate and does not break eye contact with the guy.

He grimaces, obviously guilty. There is something so endearing in the way he bites at his lower lip Marti has to look away. He has nice lips. And pretty eyes. Marti could swear they look green.

Or golden. Green-golden, is that a thing?

"Lift home to say sorry?" the guy repeats, an apologetic smile stretching his lips. Marti has to bite his own not to smile.

"Promise you'll go slow?"

The guy puts a hand over his heart. He looks strangely solemn in the rain, even though he's smiling slightly. "Promise."

"And that you're not a serial killer? When I said I didn't want to die today I was serious," Marti insists, though he's already picked up his phone and is walking towards the car. He would probably get in even if the answer was "well, actually..." at this point.

"Not a serial killer, you can relax," the guy confirms with a cute giggle as he catches up with Marti and opens the passenger's door for him. Marti gets in slowly, frowning, very aware of the fact no one has done that for him since he was five. He's not sure if he should feel flattered or condescended to.

He forgets all about it once he's inside the car. The... _guy_ left the engine on so it's perfectly warm and dry inside. Marti leans back against the seat with a deep satisfied sigh, too tired to even move his backpack.

_The guy..._

The driver's door opens and he gets in, smiling so big it makes Marti think of a child on an adventure. It's strangely sweet.

"Martino," Marti says, offering him his hand to shake.

He takes it, their hands squeaking comically as he shakes it, wet skin against wet skin. His smile gets impossibly bigger.

And yeah, his eyes are totally green and golden.

"Niccolò."

*

"Here, right?" Niccolò asks as he slows down in front of the gate, his turn signal on, waving at the car behind to pass him as he's going to stop.

He's a careful driver, after all. Marti wouldn't have guessed.

"Yeah, thank you. Let me just... my flatmate isn't home so I need..." Marti unfastens the seatbelt and grabs his backpack, still soaking wet. He opens the zipper with tentative fingers: his keys are in there... somewhere.

"Where the _fuck_ are they?" Marti mumbles as pushing his uni books around does not make them magically appear. "I swear I... But I thought I had... Oh, shit, what if-"

"What?" Niccolò is looking at him curiously, not especially worried.

"I think I left my keys inside!" Marti lets himself fall back against the car seat, groaning. _What is it about today? ___

____

____

"Okay, well. Is your flatmate... in the neighbourhood? I can drive you there and you can borrow his keys."

"He's at his girlfriend's," Marti sighs. "She lives close."

"Good then. Just tell me where-"

"Yeah, I'm not going there."

Niccolò frowns. "Why?"

Marti grimaces. "Let's just say I have a... history of showing up at the wrong time."

"Oh." Niccolò pauses, just long enough to put two and two together. " _Oh! _" He giggles then, childish and amused, which has Marti roll his eyes to try and disguise the twinge of guilt that would have given him away otherwise.__

____

____

"I'm glad you're having fun, but he won't be home before like... midnight. If he's early," Marti says gloomily. "I'm going to die of hypothermia waiting for him. I mean, I could go to a café, I guess..."

Niccolò smiles. "They'll kick you out at dinnertime."

"Yeah... I'll find a restaurant then."

"And drip on their pasta?"

"Okay, I'll just die then," Marti counters, starting to get annoyed at Niccolò's lack of cooperation. "But hey, thanks for the lift." He makes to open the passenger's door, but Niccolò holds him by the arm. Again.

Niccolò sighs deeply, as if he expected this to happen. "Sorry, I always fuck things up. Sorry," he says, his tone quiet and apologetic, his wet hair glued to his forehead, and Marti feels impossibly guilty for snapping at him.

"Wait, I didn't-"

"What I meant to say is," Niccolò tries to amend, a bit tentative now. "You can come to mine, if you want. I'll drive you home later, when your friend is back."

That... effectively leaves Marti speechless. He opens his mouth to reply but can't think of anything to say, his brain completely blank, so he shuts it again. They listen to the whirring of the heating system in silence and, as the seconds pass, Niccolò's expression falls a bit.

"I mean, if you don't want to it's fine. I just thought, since I don't live too far-"

"Are you this nice to everyone you meet?" Marti cuts him off, an eyebrow raised, and Niccolò smiles sadly.

"I try," he offers with a shrug. "But also I feel bad for, like..." He gestures at Marti's sorry state. "I want to make it up to you. If you're still worried about the serial killer thing, you can call someone, let them know the address-"

That makes Marti laugh. "I'm not," he says, and it's warm enough that it makes Niccolò smile too. He's crazy attractive, Marti noticed immediately, but when he smiles he just... shines. As cheesy as it sounds, it's true. "Well... if you're sure, I mean..." Marti mumbles, a bit awkwardly, as he fastens his seatbelt again. "Thank you?"

Niccolò nods, his smile mainly in his eyes now. "You're welcome." He throws a quick glance at Marti, a funny and indecipherable one, before focusing back on the road. "To the lair then! I mean, my flat."

Marti snorts a laugh, rolling his eyes.

*

The flat is dark as they walk in, Niccolò leading the way, but what Marti sees when Niccolò turns on the lights isn't that much of a surprise.

It's still stunning, obviously, but Marti kind of expected it: he had time to take in the historical building, the spotless marbles floors in the hall, the uniformed immaculate porter who addressed Niccolò as "Mr. Fares" before nodding respectfully at Marti, saying: "Good evening, sir".

(He didn't utter a single word about the fact they both looked like they had plunged into a swimming pool fully clothed.)

So Marti doesn't lose too much time wow-ing.

"Your living room could fit my and Gio's entire flat twice," Marti points out, as he hands over his coat and backpack at Niccolò's request. When Niccolò gestures for permission to open it, probably to try and salvage the books, Marti just nods.

"It's huge, I know... It still freaks me out, even though I should be used to it by now. This used to be my grandma's place."

It does make sense, Marti figures as he takes a closer look. The furniture is obviously valuable but also quite dated. The heavy curtains, the lace cushions, the rotary dial landline and... is that a _pendulum clock?_ The whole thing doesn't exactly scream Third Millennium.

Then again, the fireplace is nice: elegant, yet cozy, and Marti likes the wooden carvings on top, shaped like spires. Marti traces them absentmindedly with his finger. The fireplace is not lit right now, but Marti has to do a double take as he notices...

"Oh, right. Martino, meet Matilde and Armando... They were also my grandma's."

Two fat cats are sleeping inside the fireplace, curled up around each other: one is black with white spots, the other red. The black one opens one lazy eye at the sound of her name, glances distractedly at Marti and meows briefly before going back to sleep, her head on top of the red cat's.

"That means she likes you," Niccolò traslates when Marti only raises an eyebrow at the less-than-lukewarm welcome.

"Clearly."

"She does, trust me. You would know if she didn't." Niccolò leans down to pat the head of the black cat affectionately. "The bathroom is that way if you want to take a shower..." He points at the opposite side of the living room, just behind the giant wooden library. "I'll find something for you to wear while your clothes dry."

At this point, Marti knows better than to be overwhelmed. He's just grateful. And a little bit awkward about taking a shower at a hot stranger's house, but he thinks he'll manage.

He mumbles his thanks, pulls a funny face at the cats who ignore him completely, and walks to the bathroom, smiling to himself as he hears Niccolò try to coax Matilde and Armando to move from their makeshift bed.

*

The real surprise is waiting for him as he gets out the shower and gets dressed quickly in the guest bedroom (the guest bedroom! Marti didn't think they existed in real life). The tracksuit bottoms Niccolò laid down for him on the bed are a bit too short but the blue t-shirt fits alright.

He walks back into the living room, about to thank Niccolò for his hospitality by offering to buy them dinner later – he kind of still feels like having Japanese, his wallet will just have to accept it – but he stops in his tracks as soon as he steps inside.

The living room is plunged into darkness, a soft orange glow coming from the now lit fireplace. The two cats must have agreed to move and are now sleeping on the old worn down carpet. Niccolò has lit some candles as well, those crazy expensive orange-smelling ones Eva likes so much but can hardly afford.

There are two mugs on the small table too, just by the sofa. Even from this distance Marti can smell chocolate.

"... okay," that's all he can come up with on the spot. He hears Niccolò's low chuckle somewhere at his right.

He steps out of the darkness, a plaid blanket over his shoulders like a cape, another one in his hands. He hands it to Marti who takes it with tentative hands and a raised eyebrow.

Niccolò laughs again. As he gestures for Marti to make himself comfortable of the sofa, he notices that he has changed into more comfortable drier clothes too, though his hair still looks a bit wet.

"Too much?"

"I mean... a bit." Marti plops down onto the surprisingly soft sofa, the plaid blanket in his lap. "I feel like I'm a guest at some fancy hotel."

"Okay, maybe I overdid it a bit," Niccolò agrees, a small, almost self-deprecating smile on his lips. "Marisol would kill me if she knew we were having chocolate before dinner."

Marti frowns. "Who's Marisol?"

"Uhhh, I guess you could call her my super-ego." Niccolò smiles crookedly at Marti before offering him one mug and sitting next to him. "Sorry. I put your books on the radiator to dry and couldn't help but notice... Do you study psychology?"

"Sociology."

"I see..."

Marti snorts a laugh. "No, I don't know what one does with a degree in that either."

Niccolò's smile grows understanding and a tiny bit sad. Matilde, the black cat, jumps on the sofa with surprising agility and Niccolò starts petting her head distractedly. "Don't worry. I've heard it too many times myself to ever think of saying it to someone else."

That definitely piques Marti's interest. "What are you studying?"

Somehow he can't think of anything that would be fitting. Maybe he just doesn't know Niccolò enough.

Scratch that. He doesn't know Niccolò _at all_. He keeps forgetting that...

"I'm... not at uni at the moment, actually," Niccolò offers, after a brief pause. He almost sounds apologetic about it. "Took a year off."

"Oh." Marti hesitates. He knows it sounds stupid, but it feels like a sensitive subject and he's afraid of overstepping. What does one answer to that? 'Good for you'?

"Yeah, my parents were _thrilled_. My dad teaches at university, you know..." Niccolò sighs. "They made me promise I will go back a million times, even though they hated I studied art in the first place."

"What about you? Did you like it?" Marti asks tentatively, taking a small sip of his chocolate. It's boiling hot, but still sweet and deeply satisfying. Somehow, he thinks he already knows the answer.

"I like art," Niccolò says simply, and Marti smiles because he gets it. "Which is why I took this year off, I mean. There was this project that was just _calling_ to me, and I had no time for it because I was drowning in exams and assignments."

"So you're working on it now? Is it like... a painting or...?" Marti catches Niccolò smiling at his words and feels a bit self-conscious about it. He looks down at the plaid blanket, feeling stupid and young. "Sorry, I don't know much about art..."

"Nono, it's not that," Niccolò rushes to explain. It's dark but Marti can see him fidgeting with the handle of his mug, like he meant to reach out but stopped himself in time, the black cat purring softly in his lap. "It's just... it's a book, actually."

Marti looks up suddenly, surprised. "A book?"

"An illustrated book. Like, for kids. Hopefully. I mean, that's what the publisher said, so I should think-"

Marti's eyes are probably the size of Niccolò's mug coasters right now. "You have a publisher?!"

Niccolò seems to be taken aback by Marti's surprise. "Yes? I mean, I sent them what I had and they said they're interested. I have to do some editing now and finish-"

"That's so cool!"

Niccolò opens his mouth to reply but closes it again immediately, no sound coming out. Marti can't be sure, but he thinks Niccolò might be blushing. If he were, that would explain the flutter of butterflies in Marti's stomach.

"Thank you," he says in the end. It's soft and sweet, so much so it seems to convince even the red cat – Armando, Marti thinks – to jump on the sofa for some cuddles.

Matilde moves over, strangely altruistic, and tentatively headbutts Marti's leg to get him to pet her instead. He complies, smiling when the old cat sits on his lap for more.

"Can I ask what it is about?" Marti says, after a couple of minutes of peaceful silence, chocolate drinking, and cat purring. "The book?"

"Oh, it's just a silly story with talking animals." Niccolò waves his hand in the air, dismissively. "You know, it's for kids, so."

Marti raises an eyebrow. "Okay, so... I can't ask what it is about?"

"No! I mean... I just don't know that it's very interesting for grown-ups, you know." As Marti keeps looking at him expectantly, Niccolò finally caves. "It's about this giraffe, Genevieve, going on an adventure."

"Genevieve the Giraffe," Marti repeats. "Nice."

"Yeah, but she goes by Jenny."

Marti smiles. "Of course."

"So, yeah. Jenny doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up, what she wants to do. Everybody has all sorts of well-meaning ideas for her: May the Mouse thinks she should become a cheese seller, Will the Woodpecker thinks she should start carving wood... you get the picture."

"I think I do. But she doesn't want to do any of those things?"

"Exactly." Niccolò agrees, now fully immersed in the story. His obvious passion for it makes Marti smile, fond. "Sometimes she thinks it's because her heart is so far away from her head that she can't always tell what's going on down there. It takes her too much time to know what she wants. Sometimes she doesn't know how to listen to her heart at all!"

"Oh."

"Yeah. But, on her adventure, Jenny meets a new friend..."

"Leo the Lion?"

Niccolò laughs. "Francis the Fawn, actually, but good guess. Francis is all heart, so much so that sometimes he gets into trouble because he loves too much."

"They sound like a good match."

"They are!" Niccolò says excitedly, then pauses, realising that doesn't sound especially modest of him. "I mean, at least I think so."

"They definitely are," Marti reassures him quickly. He puts down his chocolate mug without looking at it, eyes fixed on Niccolò. It's probably the fire reflecting off his eyes, but they look like they're shining. "How does the story end?"

Niccolò takes a sip of his chocolate, smiling mysteriously, his eyes definitely shining now – the cats purring in the background making Marti feel more at home in this strange ancient flat than it's probably right.

"I'm working on it."

*

Nico – he becomes Nico at dinner, after the first glass of red wine – is very excited about sushi, but won't listen to Marti insisting he should pay for it.

"I'm the one who drenched you in puddle water with my shitty driving," he insists, when Marti makes to grab his wallet and pay him back. "Let me take care of it."

Marti does – his wallet secretly sighing in relief – which is how they end up back on the sofa, with chopsticks and wine, shooing the cats away from the salmon, giggling at Armando and Maltilde's combined attacks. Not tipsy just yet, but getting there, the glow of the fireplace lulling Marti into a peaceful warmth he only now realises he hasn't experienced in a while.

"Marti, Marti, the uramaki! _Marti! _Aahhh, too late!"__

____

____

Nico's warning, a laughing one, brings him back to the present just in time to see Armando running away with the loot. He carries it all the way to the opposite corner of the living room where Matilde is waiting, curled up on an old armchair.

Marti raises his eyebrow, surprised, when the red cat pushes the uramaki forward with his paw, so Matilde can have the first bite. She meows quietly in appreciation.

"He's sharing it with her."

"Of course," Nico mumbles around a smile, mouth full of rice. "They're a thing."

Marti snorts a laugh, startled and amused by the odd choice of words. "Cats are not 'a thing'." Marti rolls his eyes, his tone more lecturing than he means it to be. Must be the wine. "That's not how it works."

"Well, excuse _me _. I didn't know you were studying to be a vet too." Nico is smiling, teasing, a curious light in his eyes.__

____

____

"But it's true!" Marti argues, never one to drop a point especially when he knows he's right. "Cats don't have lifelong mates, they can't be 'a thing'!" He airquotes the expression, mocking.

"Right. I will inform them promptly." Nico raises his hands in surrender and looks over to the cats, still sharing the single uramaki between them. "Just out of curiosity, though: how do you call... that?"

Marti follows Nico's line of sight. He smiles, despite himself, at how cozy the cats look, curled around each other near the fireplace, affectionately sharing a meal.

"... feline solidarity?" he offers tentatively.

Nico laughs, shaking his head. "You're the most unromantic person I've ever met!"

Marti snorts, and hopes it doesn't come off as _too_ resentful.

Again, it's probably the wine, it's not like Marti cares Nico thinks he has no heart or whatever. He didn't even know him before today. They probably won't even see each other again.

The thought makes something inside him twist unpleasantly. He takes a generous sip of wine to cover up his silence, but he sees Nico's brow furrow anyway.

Busted.

"I feel like I said the wrong thing again?" Nico says, gentle and too quiet. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I'm just bad at... well, most things, actually."

"No, it's not. It's not you!" Marti waves away the thought, suddenly guilty about making Nico feel bad. "You're... _amazing_. I mean, look at everything you did for me today."

Nico keeps his gaze, strangely perceptive. Or maybe not strangely, Marti doesn't know. "But I did hurt you."

"It was a joke."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't-" Marti shakes his head. He's not sure why Nico's gentle understanding is making him want to cry, but it is and it infuriates him. He sniffles, wiping his eyes angrily with the back of his hand. " _God_."

Nico moves slowly, as if uncertain, almost asking for permission. Marti watches him lay down his glass of wine on the table with the sushi. He glances up at Marti and scoots closer, almost imperceptibly so.

For some reason, Marti thinks of Nico grabbing his arm without even thinking earlier – he did it twice. And then he didn't quite do it the third time.

This feels different. Now Nico reaches out and lays his hand on Marti's wrist, delicate but reassuring.

Marti can't quite manage to hold his gaze, Nico's eyes reflecting the light of the candles and the fireplace, so Marti can't be sure of what he's seeing in them. Or maybe he's just afraid of it.

"You're an amazing person with a big heart, Marti," Nico says slowly, almost solemnly, like he's revealing some kind of deep, existential truth.

Marti shakes his head, smiling sadly. "You don't know me."

"I can tell."

"And what if that's the problem?" he asks, and he sounds pathetic to his own ears. He tries not to cringe at himself and, to make up for it, adds quickly: "The heart thing, I mean, not the amazingness. I won't argue with that."

It startles a laugh out of Nico Marti can't help but return with a smile, more genuine this time. He looks up: they're so close now there's no mistaking the light shining in Nico's eyes.

Marti shouldn't, that's the whole point. But he can't bring himself to care right now. Nico's fingers pry his apart slowly, Marti putting up no resistance.

He's not sure, he thinks he might even lean in first. What he is sure of is that Nico's lips are warm and comforting and they taste of red wine. He makes a sound, something like a deep muffled sigh, when Nico tilts his head and opens his mouth to deepen the kiss.

Marti leans back against the cushion so Nico will have to chase his lips. He buries his hand in Nico's hair – the curls loose and still a bit wet – holding him there, maybe pulling a bit too hard, like he's afraid Nico might try to run away mid-kiss.

Nico notices, of course he does, and tries to pull back. "Are you sure-"

Marti kisses him again, disentagling their fingers so can hold Nico's face with both hands. "Yes." He closes his eyes and imagines only this moment exists. Only right now, on this sofa, in front of this fireplace, the intoxicating smell of scented candles and the fruity sweetness of the wine lulling him into half a daydream. " _Yes._ "

*

Marti yawns, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand. The movement dislodges the plaid blanket and Marti shivers, goosebumps spreading from his forearm all the way up to the back of his neck. He rushes to hide under it once again.

But the damage is done: he hears a low grunt and feels Nico stir from where he's pressed against his side, sandwiched between Marti's body and the sofa cushions.

Marti feels a bit ridiculous blushing now, only the ashes left in the fireplace, his phone on silent probably full of messages from Gio asking where the fuck he disappeared to. Nico's naked body curled around his, one of his arms circled around his waist in a loose hold. The cold, pale light of day peeking in though the heavy curtains, together with Marti's doubts.

Marti doesn't move, just waits, his heart thumping in his chest like crazy while Nico stretches, his fingers brushing gently against his stomach – probably by accident but it makes him twitch anyway, unsure if he wants to move away or chase Nico's disappearing fingers. He has no time to decide, in the end, because Nico mumbles something incoherent under his breath and cracks one eye open.

"Hey."

Something inside him melts when Nico looks up at him, his lips streching into a big, goofy smile, his hand now firmly in place, holding Marti's hip. He keeps smiling through his half-whispered "good morning" as he lays a kiss on Marti's shoulder.

"Good morning," Marti mumbles back, somehow managing to sound shy, which is, of course, ridiculous, given the circumstances.

Nico doesn't seem to mind. He kisses Marti's shoulder again before tilting his head up, asking for a kiss Marti is quick to grant him. It feels weird, a little bit, like something Marti's not sure is really happening to him.

But everything about Nico is warm and sweet and reassuring, and maybe – just maybe...

The kiss deepens, slow and full of promises, Nico's hands wandering on his bare skin, stroking up his spine, making Marti press impossibly closer. Marti knows where this is going if he doesn't stop it. And he doesn't _want_ to stop it, but also it's important that Nico knows.

"I don't usually sleep with strangers, you know," he huffs, pushing gently at Nico's chest when they part for air.

"Okay," Nico draws the sound out, trying to get at what Marti is really saying. "So, did I just look easy or...?"

He smiles when that makes Marti laugh and leans in quickly to steal another kiss. It's like Marti can feel his doubts threatening to crumble at each new touch, at each new smile.

Somehow, it's not as hard to explain as it was before.

"What I mean is... this means something. To me. But I'm- I'm not..." Marti says slowly. He doesn't hide his face in Nico's shoulder, though he wants to. He looks on, comforted by how attentive and kind Nico looks, by the gentle touch of his fingers on Marti's skin. "I did... some awful things to a friend's relationship, out of jealousy. I'm... not sure I'm very good at... this. The only other relationship I've had lasted two months – he left when I told him... what I did." His nervous laugh comes out half-strangled, so he takes a deep breath to compensate. "I'll understand if you change your mind, is what I'm saying."

Nico pauses for a moment. He doesn't look shocked, or disgusted, more like he's weighing what Marti said, thinking carefully about his next words.

"Has he forgiven you? Your friend?" he asks gently in the end, and it strikes Marti as a very peculiar thing to say. He was expecting Nico to want to know details, he was ready to share them.

He nods anyway. "Yes."

"But you haven't?"

There is it again: that lump in his throat, his eyes prickling with the beginning of tears. Marti waits, then shakes his head, looking away this time, unable to hold Nico's gaze or he knows he'll end up crying, and he feels like he's been embarassing himself enough as it is.

Nico lifts his hand to stroke Marti's cheek.

"You're an amazing person with a big heart, Marti," Nico says softly, smiling when Marti looks up, recognising his words from yesterday. Somehow, they hit differently now, under the blankets, Nico whispering them so tenderly even as Marti is such in a sorry state. "You must forgive it when it gets things wrong."

"You don't know me," Marti says. That's his line, he's pretty sure.

Nico laughs gently at Marti repeating their conversation word for word. "I can tell," he challenges him, an eyebrow raised.

_And what if that's the problem?_

... Marti means to say it, he does, except, weirdly, it doesn't fit anymore. Did... did Nico change the story without Marti noticing? Do a bunch of words really make that much of a difference?

_You must forgive it when it gets things wrong._

Marti searches Nico's eyes for answers. There is tenderness there, and understanding, and a strange kind of quiet, a sense of purpose, like all the puzzle pieces have fallen into place in the end. Like the story has finally found its ending.

"How?" Marti asks in a quiet whisper.

Nico smiles. He grabs Marti's hand under the blanket and guides it to his chest: Marti closes his eyes, feeling, more than listening to, the quiet rhythmic thumping under his fingers, strangely in synch with the rain outside, pattering gently against the windows.

"I listened," Nico says simply.


End file.
